


Child of Adam

by Didymus Has Doubts (Nemonstrous)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Fingering, Gender-neutral Reader, Hand Jobs, No Spoilers, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Post-Canon, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 09:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18848680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemonstrous/pseuds/Didymus%20Has%20Doubts
Summary: Mornings are made for sleepy sex.





	Child of Adam

**Author's Note:**

> My first work and its self-indulgent smut about a little goth twink. Lawd have mercy.  
> This prose is rather purple, but I'm a fan of poeticism.  
> This work isn't really so much explicit as it is just a lot of physical appreciation and trying my hand at writing fanfiction.

At this point, you were sure you’d been conned.

Your memory of how you got to this point -his fragile frame caught in your hands like a cello and bow, mouth full of moans not your own- was sketchy at best. Mornings were like that though. You remembered him, head lolled aside against the pillow while cars drove past, briefly illuminating him, light scattered by the rain that washed down the window panes. His eyes were cast in shadows, half-glazed with some lingering hint of a rapture that had made none-too-graceful an entry and left like a hushed whisper. After that, nothing. But now you were here once more, at the proverbial doorstep of bliss; no longer beating your fists into the wood but coaxing its tenant with sweet and mumbled praises.

The first groan had shaken out of his mouth as he’d shivered, hair-on-end from the contrast of sensations: warm sunshine, wet lips and tongue. Each arch of limb and body rippled gooseflesh further, stippling the inked whorls that seemed to swell like tides over his skin. You swallowed every sound that followed, feasted as if air could be filling, took that shaking in your teeth bit-by-bit. Until you shook too. His mouth hung open, fighting the losing battle to breathe.

It was so early that all was quiet, save you; substitute songbirds for the dawn but not half as melodic, too caught up in the rising heat.

 

Such a contrast he was, from the night before.

 

He was pale as the dead in unkind light, a specter that shuffled about with his shoulders hunched and raven-feather hair that seemed to mark him. The ally of some grave force or forgotten, a grey god of dust and ruin. It didn’t help that his eyes were bruised in their sockets, that they seemed to carry the darkness under his brows constantly, that the shadows stuck to him like a second skin. His fingers were long and spindly, evoking images of spiders and cobwebs at night, deathly white like bones. Even his smile could not save him, flush against his pallor as if stained from a bloody meal. Would anyone be surprised, given the beastly company he kept?  
A panther made of shifting obsidian, a butcherbird with a split and serrated beak-- not to mention a colossus of shifting ichor; all familiars fit for a doer of evil deeds.

 

Yet, when the sun painted the sheets he stretched his wings, no less holy than any other. Pallor turned to porcelain that tinged pink at his ears and cheeks, and raven’s feathers softened, made halos of his hair. His eyes gave you glimpses of Eden, far away as myth and yet so close. All the grace of a child of Adam, a child of Eve, filled him when he arched into your touch. Not a devil, not an angel. Just a man who inexplicably reflected both Heaven and Hell. 

 

Could anyone blame you, for being enraptured, for folding him up in your arms and letting the early hours’ clumsy want guide you? Sin or virtue be damned, for neither crossed your mind, but you took pleasure in how his voice husked, unsteady. A far cry from his perfect diction, tuned for reciting verse and meter. Yet it clung, hinted in throaty sweeps when he went from gasping for air to asking -pleading, perfectly polite- for more.  
Still so damnably genteel, even reeling and the foundations of his awareness torn up, but perhaps that was why you were caught.   
_Yes, you’d definitely been conned._

 

Now that some measure of peace had been attained you wanted more of this, you could see it in your mind’s eye. Urges he hadn’t ever imagined had pushed him -both of you, you shared the blame- to steal moments, secreted into spaces found and appropriated for brief trysts. As if you wouldn’t get the chance, as if the clean-up in Redgrave wasn’t merely the prelude to another fight, another war, another long road stained with so much blood.  
But you woke with him, in a half-tangled pile of limbs, your thigh trapped between his, a hard line of flesh threatening toward your hip. Proof, brash as it was, that the danger had passed. Proof you could happily pay mind to, could lavish and stir to the backdrop of muffled moans and huffing breath.

  
Fancy and smitten words for what ultimately amounted to ‘more of the same’. Though his head wasn’t flung back into the pillow -it was your shoulder this time- and he wasn’t clutching at your back as if the world was about to shake apart with him. He was leaving long lines over your knees and thighs with his nails. As you freed his mouth he stopped abusing your leg, only to reach back and seize your hair. Like a lifeline he held tightly as you dipped two fingers into him, eased by the slide of lubricant -the bottle was probably on the floor by now- and last night’s tumble. He made the motion of gasping though no sound escaped, his lips uncertain whether to part or to press together as his brow furrowed. He wasn’t able to keep his eyes open, though occasionally he stole furtive glances down at your hands, wrapped around him, slowly working into his body, moving in tandem.   
_Driving him mad._   
  
Because he was no devil though he played the part with confidence and poise. He was no angel either, for he gave in to desire without hesitation. He was human, beautiful in his earthly surrender to simple mortal wants.

 

“Please,” a litany tumbled from his lips, sweeter than any poetry as he climbed. Higher and higher you urged him, watching the sun shafts cast him half in light, half in shadow as he tightened around your fingers. You kept pace, gentle but merciless until he bowed away from you, face turned to the ceiling to shout. Pinched at the brow, mouth twisted in a snarl, his breath caught and caught, huffed and hissed.  
He fell back down to Earth, having knocked on Heaven’s door twice in a day. Into your arms, he fell, all fragile frame and raven hair.

 

 _“Child of Adam,”_ his lips lifted to meet your breath, ghosted across them. _“How tastes the fruit?”_

He opened his eyes, stolen Eden within. _“Oh, but so sweet.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I have an idea for a tale, but I do not know how my work will be received. So this is me testing the waters. Lemme know what you think.


End file.
